The Watchman
John Ford, 2008
You don’t see him.
He’s been standing there for years,
Alone upon the wall we share to shelter us from fears.
This job you gave him some while back that raised him from the flock,
Took him too, from hearth and kin to stand out on that rock.
But you don’t see him.
You won’t see him.
Your frolic steals your care,
You play and laugh and feast and love, of perils unaware.
You trust that if the wicked lurks beyond this hedge, he’ll know,
And sound the Claxton, blow the horn, and warn before it shows.
But you won’t see him.
You can’t see him.
He doesn’t fit into your plans.
A hundred things you’d rather do than what he might demand.
His words aren’t soft, he asks too much uprightness from your walk,
And when he speaks his words sound harsh, there’s brimstone when he talks.
But you can’t see him.
He sees you.
You think he’s not aware.
Your secret faults aren’t hidden well, concealed by you with little care.
As if corruption’s fell assault comes from without, but not within,
And one who’s given to your keep won’t notice any of your sin.
But he sees you.
He calls to you.
In exhortation and in prayer,
You listen with a jaundiced ear, ignore admonishments he’s shared.
And turn the bile of wrath outward, and not on self, as though you could
Your umbrage change to righteousness, and bend the truth to serve your mood.
Yet he still calls to you.
He frets for you.
Like a father for his brood,
Who sees his kinder cast their moorings, drift away, bound for no good.
Those whom you trust to be your beacons, ought search for what their troth has brought.
They play among you with abandon, cast out their caution with your lot.
And he still frets for you.
You shan’t see him.
How long can a disarmed watchman wait?
For countless years upon this bulwark, walking post with steady gait,
In weather fowl, at darkest even, through sorrows deep standing his ground,
Unseen, not heeded, unsought, unknown, he’ll step aside without a sound.
And you shan’t see him.